This was when I developed the idea of the Northumbrian Westerns. I've had a play performed, won a small poetry competition and had short stories published. I now live on the edge of the Lake District, still teaching and writing but the motorbikes have been replaced by three children. Are you an author? Help us improve our Author Pages by updating your bibliography and submitting a new or current image and biography. Learn more at Author Central. Previous page. Kindle Edition. Next page.
Clan Machine (Chapman New Writing): bobolytuda.tk: Ian McDonough: Books
Unlimited One-Day Delivery and more. The emergence into the s of a generation of poets including James K. Baxter moved the process into another phase. The judgement-inviting sense of will-to-language begins to fade over the next decade. The who and the where are interdependent, yet at times one will be a more appropriate question than the other. The concern with who you are implies a sense of tenure: returned beyond migration, an immature whakapapa can become legendary and nostalgic.
Satirists of colonial insecurity have ridiculed the colonial desire to seek identity through legendary ancestry — to find a European aristocrat to ground that rootless who. The reciprocal hungers for each other of impoverished European nobility and New World heiresses is a kind of comic imprint of the same traffic. A sentimental attachment to the British Royal Family might be considered a related phenomenon.
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This who is hieratic: if you ask for it too early in the history of your tenure you are going to get lost in the illusory comforts of legend which also come in proletarian guises , or in racially xenophobic culture, much as Hubert Church got lost in Tennysonian visions of beauty. By the time you have got it straight about where you are where here is , the who may follow more naturally: the tenure of your whakapapa will be extensive enough to stand between you and delusion; the legendary can properly have become the mythic, an integral part of your sense of history. It is outflanked by a classic and, in formal terms, hieratic, oriori of Ngati Kahungunu see p.
Thus, between two classic poems recording and commemorating whakapapa, is the marooned English sailor, on a desolate beach … historic archetype of Pacific translation. Not quite there — his description drops wearily into negatives:. It is with Blanche Baughan that we first sense the beginnings of an internal relation of where to the language of the poems.
Be alive! Now we are likely, as did a few contemporaries, to recognise the qualities of her intimate miniatures. There shall be no insistence upon symbolism; let each eye take the tokens, heart interpret, individual tongue make fit to respond. As both Robin Hyde and Gloria Rawlinson had to over the next decade, Eileen Duggan struggled for independence within, and occasionally from, those muffling conventions.
Rare , certainly. And as the struggles involved begin to be better known, we are able to turn that knowledge back into the ground of the poetry, the culture of what is there.
And to notice a code of alert irony which has seldom been recognised, but which is characteristic of much poetry by women from Ursula Bethell down: having heard it in Eileen Duggan, in Robin Hyde, Janet Frame, Fleur Adcock, Elizabeth Smither, we may feel the celebrated humour of A. Fairburn and Denis Glover, for example, to be more confident than witty. The tall pine in the bracken. Lothian, Melbourne, , p. It is not just that he was a second-rate poet, nor that we now enjoy the gloating benefits of retrospection.
At the human centre of this examination are repeatedly solipsistic images: closed rooms, cosy fires, books, companionable silence, billowing white curtains. Outside in the world are, for example, those. Who are planting Deep in desert Otago Athenian olive, Virgilian vine, pledges perhaps of a future Milder and sweeter to mellow blunt hard natures Of farmer and rabbiter, driver, storekeeper, orchardsman, With usage of wine and oil from grove and vineyard Shading stony terraces, naked gorges Scoured now by frost and fire, no human country.
The plains are nameless and the cities cry for meaning, The unproved heart still seeks a vein of speech. And certainly, in the single line quoted above, we can read his belief in the programmatic function of poetry in advancing the possibility of a natural relation, an internally familiar culture. We must not attach too much value to these dialectical developments. In spite of its ironies, the poem immerses us in its process. Its literary influences can be guessed at John Ashbery, perhaps , but it remains completely familiar at a local level.
It is inside its history. Not I, some child, born in a marvellous year, Will learn the trick of standing upright here. Forty years later, the poems of David Mitchell often achieve a similar intensity: demotic austerity containing intense lyrical pressure. What your hard soles have taught you, and rough hands, What your wet eyes have dealt with, and tight mouths.
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What your bewilderment gave you, and hot heart, That only is your knowledge. Take and bear it. A door. Down you go alone, so late, into the surge-black fissure. In the earlier poems of James K. Baxter, it is the demotic which is always reclaiming the poetry from an insecure hieratic tone committed to abstractions:. How many roads we take that lead to Nowhere, The alley overgrown, no meaning now but loss: Not that veritable garden where everything comes easy. In his finest poems, this awareness produces a characteristic tone of covert humour. It is a tension, too, that enacts the persistent dualisms of those earlier poems.
The requests came from the other companies who realised that, with the changing rules, they needed to be part of a bigger group. I didn't want a repeat of what we've seen in publishing where, if we are not careful, there won't be a British firm owned by British money.
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Even Macmillan is now owned by the Germans. Chapman doesn't rule out acquisitions in England if the situation arises.
By then he will be viewing it from the newly-created role of president, which was his parting accolade yesterday. Back home in Cheam, he still has many business irons in the fire. There could even be a fascinating book from the man who has published for the world - and could surely now write his own best seller.
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This Dust of Words: Poetry and/as Translation; Ian Crockatt
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